


Deep

by FrozenAbattoir



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 03:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenAbattoir/pseuds/FrozenAbattoir
Summary: Sometimes the ghosts we carry with us tend towards the literal.





	Deep

**9:44 Dragon // Deep Roads**

     She’s slowing down. Only by a little, but over time she notices the difference. An errant slash glancing off her helm when she should have cut the offending hurlock a moment earlier. A kite shield slamming into her back that she should have knocked aside without a second thought. And the arrow currently embedded in her shoulder, a painfully pointed reminder that she’s getting sloppy. Maker’s blood, she’s only 31. Or is she 32? Time runs together in the deep roads, and she’s been down here a long, long time. Is this the price she pays for years of reckless rage, for always throwing herself headfirst into the fray?

     She leans back against the tunnel wall, gritting her teeth. Yeah, that fucking arrow needs to go. Normally she’d let a healer take it out painlessly and seal up the wound with magic, but she’s very much on her own down here. On three, then. One…two…

     “FUCK!” Oh sweet Maker that hurts so fucking much. She slams a fist against her armored thigh, spitting curses and trembling. Of course the arrowhead was barbed. Why wouldn’t it be? Damn it all, she should have expected as much.

     “Fuck,” she repeats, heaving in a ragged breath. Squeezing her eyes shut, she silently begins counting to twenty in Qunari– recalling the absurd accents should distract her from the pain. In theory.

     “Sweet of you to offer, but I think I’ll wait until you’re cleaned up.”

     Her eyes snap open and she lunges for her blade before her mind catches up to her muscle memory. That echoing contralto is familiar...unfortunately.

     “You again.”

     The apparition smiles sweetly. This time she's taken her favorite form, the long-dead elf Iona. It’s been thirteen (maybe fourteen?) years since that night at Castle Cousland, and the memory of her shy, gentle smile still makes Nathasja flinch.

     “Well, who else would it be?” Not-Iona perches on a nearby genlock corpse, tilting her head in amusement. “I do hope you’re not hallucinating any other girls just yet. I might get jealous.”

     Nathasja sighs. “I liked you better when you stayed in my head.”

     “Aww, don’t be like that.” The entity’s pout is positively saccharine. “You’re the one who let me out, remember? My darling little Fade-walker.”

     She scowls at the spirit, unwrapping a healing poultice with trembling fingers. The mashed elfroot’s icy burn washes over her shoulder’s endless throbbing and she sighs with relief.

     “Nothing to say, hmm? At least you admit I’m right.” Incorporeal hands pick up a rusted darkspawn dagger, poking at the jagged edges. “Besides, you’d be dead ten times over without my help.”

     Nathasja groans. “If I say you’re right, will you go away?”

     In a blink the spirit is kneeling beside her, stroking her matted hair with sickening tenderness. “Oh, Warden,” she coos, “I’m  _never_  going away.”


End file.
